Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. ” “I’ve told you,” he said. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. .
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